Chapter 1

The week after the “incident” at the volleyball game has been the most sex-crazed of our relationship. We weren’t ashamed of what happened with Tyler; we’d become addicted to it. The image of him taking her on the hood of my car had unlocked something in both of us. We’ve been having spontaneous sexual romps constantly—in the kitchen, in the shower, against the front door. All I had to do was whisper, “Remember what he did to you?” and she’d be dripping wet.

Her last volleyball game of the season is the week after I went. I don’t attend that game—I can’t handle the sensory overload again so soon—but I wait with anxious, vibrating anticipation until she gets home. When she walks through the door, flushed and sweaty, the smell of victory and male attention clinging to her, I am on her. We don’t even make it to the bedroom.

We proceed to fuck for three hours straight. It’s raw, desperate, and filled with the kind of dirty talk that would make a sailor blush. As I pound into her from behind, pinning her against the living room wall, she narrates every touch she had received that night.

“Oh god, Danny! Yes! Fuck me!” she screams, her head thrown back. “They were all over me tonight! We won the championship, and they couldn’t keep their hands off me!”

“Did he touch you?” I growl, gripping her hips, my fingers digging into the bruises that were still fading from the week before. “Did Tyler touch you?”

“Yes! Everywhere!” she moans, pushing back against me. “During the huddle ... he grabbed my ass right in front of the ref! He squeezed it so hard ... he thinks he owns it, Danny! He thinks this ass belongs to him!”

“Does it?” I slap her ass, the sound echoing like a gunshot.

“In the moment ... yes!” she wails, her orgasm hitting her hard. “When he grabs me ... I can’t think! I just want him to take me again! But I came home to you...”

“Did he want to fuck you again?” I ask, driving deeper, testing the limits. “Did he ask?”

“Yes! He whispered it in my ear ... he wanted to take me right there in the locker room! I wanted it so bad, Danny! I was dripping for him!” she cries out, her voice thick with lust and honesty. “But I told him no! I couldn’t ... not without you there. I need you to see it. I need you to say it’s okay. I don’t want to cheat ... I want to play with you!”

It was the confession I needed. She wasn’t looking to leave me; she was looking to perform for me.

“Good girl,” I whisper, grabbing her hair and pulling her head back so she is looking at me. “You save that pussy for when I say so.”

“Yes! Only with your permission!” she wails, her orgasm hitting her hard, “oh god, Danny, fill me up! Make me forget how big he was!”

It’s a frantic, sweat-soaked exorcism of lust. We collapse in a heap, sated but still buzzing with the electricity of whatever this new thing is that we are dancing with. I don’t know what to call it, but I know the last few weeks have been insanely hot.

The next morning, Kay is awake before me. I glance up, sleepily, from the tangled sheets to see her standing in front of the full-length mirror. I admire her beautiful, friendly face, her cascading red hair, her hourglass figure, her tight sides and trim waist, and of course, her round, juicy, bouncy, jiggling ass. It’s almost mesmerizing watching it move back and forth in her thong panties as she brushes her hair.

I continue to watch her through half-open eyes as she walks into the closet, her ass literally bouncing with each step, the muscles rolling under her skin. She comes out a moment later in her normal work outfit: a professional-looking grey pencil skirt, a crisp white blouse, and a fitted jacket.

The skirt, despite its intention of being modest, is betrayed by the fact that it struggles to do anything but cling to her fantastic rear. The fabric is stretched tight across the apex of her glutes, creating a shelf that defies gravity. Every time she shifts her weight, the skirt rides up slightly, cupping her cheeks in a way that is definitely not HR-approved.

She looks over as she walks back in to grab her purse and sees I am awake.

“Hey there, killer,” she says, smiling and purring as she walks to bed. She leans down, giving me a deep, lingering kiss. “Mmmm ... last night was fantastic,” she whispers in my ear, her teeth grazing the lobe playfully.

“You were pretty good yourself,” I say, my hand snaking out from under the covers to give her butt a gentle squeeze through the skirt. The fabric is smooth, but the flesh underneath is firm and yielding.

She yelps and smiles playfully, slapping my hand away.

“Don’t get me started!” she fake scolds, straightening her jacket. “I need to go to work. And don’t forget that we have Comic-Con this weekend, so make sure you have clean clothes and we’re ready to travel. I’m picking my costume up today during lunch.”

She walks to the door, pauses, and looks back over her shoulder. She gives her hips a little wiggle, making the skirt ripple.

“I think you’re going to like this one, Danny,” she winks, “It fits the ‘theme’ we’ve been enjoying.”

She blows me a kiss and walks out. I smile, staring at the empty doorway. In that moment, I recognize just how lucky—and how doomed—I am.

I get to work like normal, but my mind is barely on the spreadsheets. I am working hard to get through everything so I can enjoy this weekend. Kay and I are both into sci-fi and the superhero stuff; we always go to a Comic-Con at least every other year. But this year feels different. The stakes are higher.

We decide we need a Trial Run. We need to see if we could handle this dynamic in the wild, with strangers, without the emotional mess of teammates or bosses.

I sit at my desk, staring at spreadsheets but seeing Kay’s ass in my mind, when a notification pops up on my screen. It’s an email from Kay’s personal account.

Subject: Comic-Con Costume Ideas?;)

I open it. She has sent five options. Four are cute, safe cosplays. The fifth is a link to the movie-version Wonder Woman costume. Even on the website’s model, it looks aggressive. The red armored bustier is low-cut and tight, and the skirt isn’t really a skirt at all—it is a belt of thick leather straps that hangs down over the model’s thighs, looking like they would part with every step.

The Wonder Woman, I type back immediately, already imagining Kay’s curves filling that out. Definitely.

“Good choice,” a voice said behind me.

I spin around. Greg, my boss—and the guy who has made my life hell since high school—is standing there, sipping his coffee. He is leaning over the cubicle wall, looking right at my monitor.

Greg isn’t just my boss; he is the ghost of every insecurity I have. Six-foot-one, broad shoulders, the thick neck of the college linebacker he used to be. Even now, years later, he keeps himself in peak physical condition, his dress shirts straining against his chest and biceps. He has that classic, aggressive handsomeness—square jaw, perfect teeth, and the effortless swagger of a man who has never lost a physical confrontation in his life.

We were friends in college before Kay. We met her the same week. We both chased her. On paper, it was no contest: the star athlete versus the skinny, shy chemistry tutor. And for a brief, agonizing month in sophomore year, they went out a few times. He charmed her, maybe even got to third base—I never asked for the details, and Kay never offered. It wasn’t “dating”—they were never official—but it was enough. He learned things about her then. He learned what made her tick, what made her shiver. But against all odds, she realized he was hollow and chose me. Greg never forgave me for that. He stayed “friends” with us, but the resentment was always there, fueled by the intimate knowledge that he had tasted what I now owned.

Then came the job. We ended up at the same firm. Two years ago, we were up for the same promotion. Greg got it. I didn’t. Since then, he’s been my boss in everything but the title, and he never lets me forget it. He is my bully, my rival, and the living embodiment of the “Alpha” I could never be.

“She’d look fantastic in that,” he says, smirking over the rim of his mug. “Any special occasion?”

“Uh, we’re just going to Comic-Con this weekend in San Diego,” I say, feeling my face heat up, embarrassed that once again he is getting a view into our sex life.

“So I see everything is good between you two despite the other week?” he asks, his smile widening just a fraction as he takes a slow sip of coffee.

My stomach tightens. He knows about the volleyball game. “Oh yeah, that was just her being drunk. She was just trying to not make a scene in public...”

“Ha!” Greg laughs, a sharp, barking sound. “She didn’t do a very good job of that. Are you sure she isn’t banging that big dude? They looked pretty friendly the other night. I mean, I saw how he had his hands all over her ass at the bar. If a guy touched my girl like that, I’d be through the roof!”

“No!” I say, too quickly. “I trust her completely. She isn’t doing anything I don’t...” I stop myself just before the words know about slip out. I clear my throat, correcting course. “We don’t keep anything from each other.”

“Is that a fact?” He looks at me, his eyes dancing with amusement, stripping me down. “Well, good for you, Chief. Anyway, I need you to run this downstairs.”

He pulls a thick envelope from under his arm and holds it out to me.

“Can’t you take it down yourself?” I ask, indignant.

“I could,” he shrugs, his voice dropping to that condescending tone he reserved just for me. “But that’s why I have people underneath me. And as of my recent promotion, that includes you. So chop chop.” He shoves the envelope into my chest.

I grunt and take it, turning on my heel and walk away. I can feel him still standing at my desk, smiling at my back. I don’t look back as I walk away, clutching the envelope and the burning resentment in my chest.

When I get home, Kay greets me with a huge smile, a kiss, and promptly drops to her knees, giving me the best blowjob I’ve had in months. It’s enthusiastic, sloppy, and full of promises for the weekend.

Afterward, as we lay tangled on the couch, she tells me she put the Wonder Woman outfit as an option in case I am thinking, like her, that the weekend might give us an opportunity to explore this new fantasy we have with the anonymity of costumes to assist. But she refuses to try the outfit on for me, saying it’ll be a surprise when we get there.

The rest of the week flies by, and finally, Friday has arrived. We drive to downtown San Diego and get a hotel room. We head to bed early that night since it’s going to be a long day tomorrow.

San Diego. Saturday Morning.

The air conditioning in the hotel room hums, a low drone against the silence. I sit on the edge of the King-sized bed, wearing my standard con gear—Star Wars tee and jeans—but my heart is hammering like I am about to step into the ring.

The bathroom door creaks open.

“Okay,” Kay’s voice trembles slightly. “Don’t be mad. It’s ... It’s a lot.”

She steps out. My breath hitches.

The costume is a declaration of war. The red bustier pushes her breasts up into a spilling shelf of pale, heavy flesh. But the skirt ... the skirt is the main event. The heavy leather straps hang perfectly still for a moment, but as she takes a tentative step toward me, they swing apart.

Underneath, she is wearing a tiny, metallic gold thong. It is nothing more than a shimmery suggestion, the string disappearing deep between her heavy, round cheeks, leaving the vast majority of her ass completely bare to the hotel lights.

“Jesus, Kay,” I breathe.

She spins around. “Too much?”

She gives her hips a wiggle. Clack. Swish. The straps part like a curtain, revealing the hypnotic jiggle of her exposed glutes.

“No,” I croak, my mouth dry. “It’s ... perfect.”

She walks over, planting her hands on my shoulders, her eyes serious. “Okay, the rules,” she whispers, needing the structure to feel safe. “We go to the floor. I flirt. I let them look. Maybe ... maybe I let them touch a little if you give the nod. But that’s it. No numbers. And absolutely no sex. Just the thrill, Danny. Just a trial run.”

“Just a trial run,” I repeat, reaching up to squeeze her waist, feeling the warmth of her skin. “If you get uncomfortable, you tug your left ear. We leave immediately.”

“Okay,” she breathes, leaning down to kiss me. “Let’s go play.”

The Convention Floor: The Long Grind

We enter the main area at 10:00 AM, and the reality of the Con hits us like a physical wall. It is a living, breathing ocean of humanity. Fifty thousand people packed into a space designed for half that. The noise is deafening.

Kay starts strong. She walks with that deliberate, rolling gait. Left, right, left. Every step, the heavy leather straps part slightly. Every step flashes an expanse of pale, jiggling ass cheek to the crowd. I walk five paces behind her, playing the role of the “Cousin.”

But as the hours ground on, the “fantasy” begins to clash with the mundane, exhausting reality of the Con.

We spend forty-five minutes in a stagnant line for Artist Alley. Kay’s feet are killing her in the boots.

“I feel like a museum exhibit,” she hisses to me as we shuffle forward. “Look, don’t touch.”

She tries to bait an artist by bending over to look at a print, practically putting her ass on his table. The straps part, revealing the gold thong and the deep cleft of her ass. The poor guy turns beet red and won’t even look at her.

“He wouldn’t even make eye contact,” she complains as we walk away. “Am I intimidating? Or just ... too much?”

By 2:00 PM, the frustration is palpable. We hit the main floor again for Photo Ops. This is the breaking point.

A group of Spartan cosplayers—massive guys with ab-plates and red capes—wave us over.

“Picture, Wonder Woman?” the lead Spartan asks.

“Definitely,” Kay beams, her energy spiking.

She steps into the middle of the group. “Squeeze in!” I call out, holding her phone.

Kay poses. She turns her back to the lead Spartan, pressing her ass back towards his groin. She is inviting it.

I watch through the camera lens. I see the Spartan raise his hand. He goes to place it on her waist. But he doesn’t. He hovers. His hand floats a solid two inches off her bare hip. The dreaded “Hover Hand.”

Kay feels the lack of contact. Her eyes flash with annoyance. She reaches back, grabs his large wrist, and forcibly plants his hand on her bare hip.

“It’s okay, big guy,” she purrs, looking back at him. “You won’t break me.”